From the Other Side
by silverflight8
Summary: A look at what Luke is doing while he's in New York, and Becky has left for London. *Spoilers* for Shopaholic Takes Manhattan.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This universe is not mine; it belongs to Sophie Kinsella.

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He looked at the man across the polished oak table and said as calmly and levelly as he could manage: "Yes, Mr. Fletcher, we do have the First Nation Bank as a client, and have so for three years now. There have been no cases of litigation at all, sir. Here is what you may expect from us." He slid a sheet of paper across the shiny surface. Mr. Fletcher examined it minutely.

"We will need a few days to decide. I will inform you when we have reached a decision." Mr. Fletcher got up and shook hands. "Good-day, Mr. Brandon."

"Good-day," echoed Luke, and he left the boardroom as empty-handed as he had entered.

* * *

Hailing a cab, he gave directions to the Four Seasons hotel, and sank back onto the seat, staring fixedly out of the window at the traffic. All of the four banks he had just met with had the same reply—a half-answer of _we'd like some more time_ or _this is not what we're looking for, but if we ever need your service we'll contact you straightaway_ or some other variant. Exhaling silently, he thought again about what was happening in London. Alicia had just faxed him a report on how the company was doing in his absence; excellent, in fact.

Then why was there so much rumor and apparent uneasiness about the Bank of London? From the report, they seemed to be happy; there was nothing to say that they were dissatisfied. Someone out there must be spreading rumors—for what? Other PR companies might be competing for the same banks, but it seemed unlikely. London…his mind drifted to Becky, and flinched from the subject. He thought again about Mr. Fletcher and his First Nation Bank. They were still so reluctant, so hesitant. Something was bothering them, and all he could do was try to persuade them there was nothing wrong—not that there was anything wrong in the first place.

Paying the cab driver, he got out and went up to the suite. It was a luxurious, well-kept and also echoingly empty. As he passed the expensive phone sitting on the table, his hand reached out and started to dial a number long committed to memory, an overseas telephone number. Before he finished dialing, though, he came to his senses and put the receiver down, a little more forcefully than he'd meant to. It was over, he said to himself, and remembered what she'd said. "Maybe you don't have enough time..." "No wonder Alicia said I was tagging along…"

Shaking himself mentally, he went into the bedroom to change into a new shirt. Michael was meeting him in ten minutes down at the bar, and the tie was as constricting as a noose. He splashed his face with water, and, feeling better, went downstairs.

It was cool and quiet in the bar. It was only four o'clock in the afternoon, so the few people that were there chatted in low voices, and most of them appeared to be relaxing.

"A gin and tonic, please," Luke said. It was placed in front of him just as Michael arrived, pulling off a thick jacket.

"Hi, Luke," he said, and slid onto the seat. "Just water for me," he added.

There was a pause as Michael surveyed him for a few moments, then said, conversationally, "You might want to fly back to London to see what Alicia's doing."

"Why?" he asked, and focused on Michael's face. "What's going on with Alicia?"

"I just got a tip from someone who says she's setting up a rival PR company, and trying to poach your client. Clients, plural, in fact."

Luke was still for a moment, thinking through the various possibilities, face blank. "Do you know how reliable this source is?"

"Very," Michael said, and reiterated, "I really think you need to go to London, Luke. There's a real problem there." Sliding a sheet of paper across the table, he added, "I can look after what's going on here"

"Thanks, Michael." His face was still closed, but there was a certain grim look around his mouth. He looked at the sheet of paper with a single address printed on it. _17 King's Street, Soho._ "I'll book a trip tonight."

* * *

Back upstairs, he passed the phone and thought with a small leap of realization, swiftly quelled, that Becky was also in London, or England at least.

He opened up his laptop to schedule a flight. Glancing at the email account, he saw that there was an unopened one from Alicia. His mind flicked back to what Michael had said, but he opened it anyway. The information looked normal; small office squabbles, nothing too drastic, and the usual report that things were going well. Luke frowned, thinking that perhaps it looked a little _too_ optimistic—was there a false note in there somewhere? He closed the browser window and booked the trip.

He'd know tomorrow, one way or the other. Picking up the phone, he began dialing all of the banks in Manhattan he'd scheduled meetings with, already dreading the backlash of canceling. The automated voice inquired what he wanted, and with a sigh, he began making his excuses.

* * *

Arriving in London at almost midnight the next day, he felt tightly wound up and dull, as though the world was wrapped in cotton. He got back to his flat. This late, there was nothing he could do; he was exhausted, at any rate. The plane ride, like all overseas trips, seemed endless and he had been thinking about all the problems facing his company. The New York banks were recalcitrant, as timid as mice, bothered by_ something, _and he still had no idea what on earth was going on in London.

* * *

Later that day, as the morning traffic began to increase in earnest, he was on the road to the office. Luke stepped into the building and looked around. There was no receptionist.

Odd, he thought, and went upstairs, wary. As the elevator dinged open, he saw that many of the offices were empty, and that it was silent, as though there was just a skeleton of the company he'd left. Walking through the halls, he was becoming more and more suspicious. This was a Tuesday morning. Where was his staff?

As he approached the boardroom, the sound of murmuring voices rose. He flung the doors open. Alicia, Ben Bridges and another three employees he recognized as Alicia's friends were gathered around the table, a sheaf of papers stacked around them. They looked up with a sudden horror.

"What's going on?" Luke said, noting the names. Frederick Lyle, Peter Latimer, and Norman Fisher, as well as Alicia; they were all looking aghast at his abrupt appearance. "Someone's told me that you're trying to poach a client, Alicia. What is going on?"

"Nothing," she said, her face composed again, though he noted she was still pale. "I was just having a meeting with the company's clients. It's a routine check-up meeting."

"I don't think so," Luke said, voice flat, and exited the room, shutting the doors firmly and locking them from the outside. He went first to Alicia's office, and rummaged through her desk. Make-up, some jewelry, water…there was all sorts of junk in the drawers. But in the lowest one, he hit it—a contract, unsigned, between a new company, B & B, and the Bank of London.

He felt cold, freezing his useless emotions and digging through her desk for anything else. There was more; the banks that Brandon Communications earned the most money from were all involved, somehow.

Checking the others' desks yielded similar papers; it looked as though they'd been planning this for a long time. He took all the papers and put them carefully into his own office, locking it. Then, turning around, he started off for the boardroom.

He was very much looking forwards to firing Alicia.

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A/N: Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

"Luke?"

He looked up. Mel was standing in the doorway, arms full of papers. _Bank of London_, _Statement of Accounts_, said one in boldfaced typing. A stapler was balanced atop the stack.

She looked oddly uncertain. "You know that there's a big auction down by the Jersey Hotel, don't you?"

He blinked. What did an auction have to do with him? He'd never shown any particular love for bidding, or at least he thought he never had. He looked inquiringly at Mel.

Not looking at him, she extracted a pink and white pamphlet and stuck it in his direction, trying to keep the papers together. Too late; all of them suddenly slid loose and there was a swish sound as they dropped to the floor. He went to help pick up all of the sheets, and it was only until she had disappeared down the corridor that he picked up the pamphlet.

_Becky Bloomwood's Sale_, proclaimed the title. Underneath was written: _Everything Must Go_, accompanied by pictures of shoes. He blinked again. Despite the pile of tasks he knew he needed to accomplish, saving his business being not the least, he opened the pamphlet and read the contents.

He grasped the implications immediately. Becky must be in some debt; he wasn't surprised, thinking back to her beautiful but no doubt costly clothes in Manhattan. It was very clever of her, he thought ruefully. And Mel must have felt obliged to give him some hint that she was selling her things, being both Luke and Becky's friend.

* * *

He could hear amid the general chatter and buzz the auctioneer shouting the clothes for sale, even through the phone. Luke began bidding, jumping in when he sensed that the other bidders were almost at their limit. The person who was bidding for him, one of his friends that Becky had never been introduced to, was apparently accumulating a whole bunch of clothes, accessories, and even makeup. He wondered sardonically what the rest of the people were thinking; why was a man buying so many women's clothes, and at such a high price?

The auction was almost over. The scarf, he thought suddenly. Would she auction off that one, too? The one that she had bought with _his _twenty pound note—the one she had never returned—would she part with it? _Of course she would, if she's so desperate she's selling her things. Besides, don't you remember she walked out on you? Flew across the ocean to get away from you?_ It was that vicious little voice again, the one that used to remind him, when he was younger, that his mother had deserted him and had never wanted to come back to see him.

"An attractive green and blue scarf, from Denny and George," said the auctioneer. _Well, there you see. I suppose she _is _going to sell it_. By this point, much of the crowd had left, and there was only one other person bidding. Young, female, and apparently quite wealthy, if the expense of the bids were any indication.

They were in the one-hundred-pound range when the girl announced, loudly enough for him to hear: "Tell Maggie Sloan that whatever _she _can bid, _I _can." Luke smiled and told the person on the other end to withdraw. It was the girl he had gotten to bid for him as well, just so that the man would not seem so conspicuous. Maggie Sloan, a fictional person, was to be mentioned to tip off Luke, so he would stop bidding against himself. The scarf was his.

Several days later, in his quiet office, the phone rang again. Expecting it to be another one of his clients, irate about a scandal, the caller was somewhat of a surprise--Michael. After they had exchanged the usual pleasantries—Michael had some choice words for the client that was trying wriggle out of paying—he dropped a bombshell.

"How _is_ winning them back going?" he asked, as casual as ever. Later, Luke couldn't remember what he said; something optimistic, perhaps. Michael listened sympathetically, and then said it.

"You know the anonymous person who tipped me off about the Bank of London? It was Becky."

* * *

Well, I must apologize to those of you who thought I was going to update quickly--and asked me to. I never did intend to (and should really have written "oneshot" all over the summary in caps lock), but since I didn't, I hope you liked the chapter. And yes, when I get back from my vacation, I will give you the third chapter. It will contain Becky.


	3. Chapter 3

It had hit him a few hours ago, like a fool who had only realized the humor in a joke told long ago. It'd been in the meeting, trying desperately to salvage his company, when he'd realized that being alone wasn't working.

It was a small tip from Michael, first, telling him that Becky had found out about the client poaching Alicia had done. Then it was a phone call in the middle of an important business meeting, one of the many meetings scheduled for the day, from Suze, one of Becky's friends. Suze had told him that Becky was planning to leave England—today.

Now he was looking around the crowded airport, searching for her. The airport terminal was familiar to him, a veteran of out-of-country business trips, but it was full of people and noise. Where was she? He pushed past tired-looking travelers, most of whom were pulling suitcases and looking harassed, trying to see the check-in desks. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably in his suit; there'd been no time to change out of it. Up at the check-in desks, there were still too many people for him to see Becky. Where was she?

He saw a flash of orange as a woman in a garishly colored suit ran towards the departures section of the terminal, then off to his left a family of five, the children wide-eyed with excitement, their parents weary. There was still no sign of her.

With a heart-leaping second, he saw her—dressed fashionably, of course, but much more simply. She was at the check-in desk, evidently getting the luggage checked in, and talking easily with the woman behind the counter. A copy of the _Financial Times _was tucked casually under her arm.

He got to her side as she finished checking in and turned away from him, evidently having missed his approach.

"Becky," he said, grabbing her arm. She turned in surprise, expression blanking as she saw him. "I need to talk to you."

When she looked like she wanted to refuse, he added, "At least let me buy you a drink," and led her gently towards the food court.

"There was something more important," he said, in reply to her question of why he was here. True, his company—Brandon Communications—was desperately in need of help, but there were some things that came first.

He tried to get her to work for his company, if only she would stay in England. He told her that her imagination and ideas would be a great asset, and that he had been looking for someone like her, but she refused, politely.

"Is it the job Michael offered you? I can give you better than that," he said. Afraid he sounded like he was pleading, he stopped talking. Becky was already shaking her head, though he could see she was weighing it.

"I have to go to America. And I'm not taking Michael's offer," she said with finality. He knew then that it was no use. She had made up her mind. Sometimes, he knew, she would dither and half-decide and then back out, but when she made up her mind she did it.

It felt like déjà vu; she was leaving him again. Except, last time, he had not tried to chase after her—and that had given him the hope that maybe she might come back if he did. But he had tried, and now she was leaving.

With clumsy fingers, he pulled from his back pocket the Denny and George scarf that had been the beginning of their relationship. He gave it to a stunned Becky. It was light silk, sliding out of his hands as easily as water, leaving only an impression of loss.

* * *

I am sorry for the readers who have been waiting so long--yes, I did have an excellent summer. I hope you enjoy this chapter; I'm not sure I will write any more.


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